


Applied Phlebotomy

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bloodletting, Clothed Sex, Community: makinghugospin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly accidentally discovers a new kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Applied Phlebotomy

**Author's Note:**

> Les Mis kink meme prompt: [Joly getting off on blood-letting? It doesn't matter whether it's his own or someone else's.](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=78369#t78369)

"Thank you for letting me practise on you."

"I should be thanking you. Not only have you saved me the trouble of fetching a doctor over such a little fever, you've probably saved me from a premature death at the hands of overzealous physicians."

"Mm-hm." Joly was too busy examining his lancet to respond to this insult to the medical profession. Truth be told, he was too nervous to really listen to what Courfeyrac was saying. "Hold out your arm," he said when satisfied with the sharpness of the lancet.

"You're awfully pale, Jolllly," said Courfeyrac. "Do we have to attempt a transfusion from me to you? --ow!" For Joly had made a halfhearted attempt to prick his inner arm.

"Quiet. It's not my fault you have small veins."

"Ow! Ow, be careful. I should've know better than to tease the man with the blade in his hand, shouldn't I?"

"Mm-hm."

Joly took a few deep breaths and reminded himself that all was not lost yet. Just because he had never before succeeded in distinguishing the median cephalic vein from the median basilic didn't mean he wouldn't manage it _this_ time. He took Courfeyrac's arm in both hands and examined the crook of his elbow minutely. The inside of his arm was much paler than the outside, which had been tanned by--probably some outdoor idyll with his mistress, or a day spent swimming to escape the July heat. The dark hairs on his arm had been bleached white by the sun, and--the veins. He had to focus on the veins. Was that it? It had all been so much clearer in his anatomy textbook.

That one. It was probably that one. He took up his lancet, one finger pressed to the point he thought was the right vein.

"Having trouble finding a pulse? You might have to declare me legally dead if you can't find one. That would annoy my father most wonderfully, really throw a wrench into his lawsuit over the inheritance from my--"

"Save the joking for when I've opened the vein, for god's sake."

Courfeyrac's skin was hot and clammy from the fever, Joly's hands were cold and clammy from nerves. It seemed strangely, awkwardly intimate to be feeling around at the pale tender skin searching for the right vein to pierce. But now he was almost sure that the blood vessel pressed under his thumb was in fact the median cephalic vein. Before he could lose it, or lose his nerve, he brought the lancet in and made a swift incision.

"There!" said Courfeyrac. "That wasn't so awful, was it?"

"I'm still not entirely sure I have the right vein," Joly said, staring at his handiwork. Impossible to tell whether he'd got it right, but the bloodletting itself was at least a pretty piece of work. His hand had been sure and the wound was neat; he had gone deep enough that the blood was flowing freely. Some dry, scientific corner of his mind congratulated him on a job well done. The rest of him was occupied in staring at the steady stream of blood flowing from Courfeyrac's arm into the pan. Courfeyrac's pulse was strong enough to be visible: a little gush of blood accompanied every beat of his heart. Joly swallowed, his throat dry.

"Joly? Did you even hear me?" Courfeyrac was saying. "I said it doesn't matter as long as you--oh, hell, you're not one of those men who faint at the sight of blood, are you?"

"No." He didn't feel faint. Far from it, actually. He felt flushed all over, as though the sight of Courfeyrac's blood had set his own blood to racing.

"You look decidedly unwell. Which you're not allowed to do--I'm the sick one here."

"I'm fine." He couldn't tear his eyes away from that bright red rivulet of blood though, pulsing slightly in time with Courfeyrac's heart. Hardly thinking what he was doing, he dipped the tip of one finger into the blood in the pan and brought it to his lips.

"Joly? What are you doing?"

It was metallic on his tongue, still hot from Courfeyrac's body. Joly closed his eyes, suddenly aware of another effect of all the flushing all over his body--an unwelcome constriction in his trousers. How long had it been there? Had Courfeyrac seen? Was it a mere physical side effect of the flushing, or the source of his perverse fascination with the bloodletting?

He opened his eyes. Courfeyrac was looking at him, bewildered.

Joly knew he was blushing. More than that, he felt like he was blushing with his whole body--felt the blood rushing in to feed his unwanted erection, which was quickly becoming unbearable. "I'm fine," he repeated. "It's nothing. An excess of blood. Perhaps I should be bled myself."

Courfeyrac's eyes wandered downward. "I think the excess is of a different humour, Jolllly," he said, "don't you?"

Joly stood rooted to the spot, absolutely mortified.

Unfazed, Courfeyrac reached out to him--with the wrong arm. Joly was too busy trying to sink into the floor to warn him away from it, but he followed the movement with his eyes, and he watched mutely as three drops of blood fell to the floor--splat, splat, splat--three little gushes to accompany each beat of the pulse. He felt his prick throb with each drop of blood that fell. It all happened in the space of a second.

Courfeyrac was reaching out--not caring that he was bleeding on the floor--to touch the bulge in Joly's trousers. Before Joly even realised what was happening, Courfeyrac's hand was grasping his straining erection and Joly was spending--instantly, shockingly, blindingly--into Courfeyrac's hand.

It all happened in the space of a second.

Joly stood there, weak-kneed, the telltale stain spreading over the front of his trousers. Courfeyrac was smiling knowingly at him.

His face hot with shame, he guided Courfeyrac's arm back to the pan and mechanically checked to make sure the puncture was still cleanly open. When he was satisfied with the results, he turned around without facing Courfeyrac. "If you don't need me, I'm going into the other room. I'll be back in a little while to stop the bleeding and bind it up. If you start feeling faint, call for me."

He walked off to change his trousers without waiting to hear Courfeyrac's reply, quite determined never to speak of the incident again.


End file.
